


belly of the beast

by focusfightwin



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Apex Legends Quest: The Broken Ghost, Body Horror, Character Study, F/F, First Meetings, Gen, Post-Canon, Rivalry, Robot/Human Relationships, Season 5 (Apex Legends), Simulacra, Wire Play (if you squint)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:54:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27038284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/focusfightwin/pseuds/focusfightwin
Summary: Loba finally meets the artifact. It isn't who — or what — she expects, and makes her question her place within Hammond Robotics.(Or: Ash, Loba, and what it means to be human; what it means to be trapped, forgotten.)
Relationships: Loba Andrade/Ash (Titanfall)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	belly of the beast

**Author's Note:**

> Ever since we learned the artifact was Ash, I wondered what the dynamic would be like between Ash and Loba, and how Loba would feel about learning she was making another simulacrum for Hammond — and meeting Ash in person. 
> 
> There's also a lot of Loba & Ash gen in here too along with some disability hcs for Loba, if that's your thing. Please mind the warnings for body horror! There is nothing wholly explicit but it does get into human/unhuman body things re: simulacrums. 
> 
> And there's also a heavy dose of wlw subtext, because why not. 
> 
> A lil shoutout to cae for listening to me ramble and cheering me on during the process of this, ilu <3

When Loba finds the monster — when she finds him crouched and snarling at the end of the bed with his claws in the mattress, whispering her name — her first instinct is to run. It always is. Run like Papa says the night he was murdered; run like Jamie says twenty five years later, when Loba is grown, and she finds the beast a second time. 

He makes it sound so simple. Achievable. Something desirable. 

Just _run._

It is an option, yes. Loba could disappear into obscurity and save herself; she could forfeit her fortune — everything she has, everything she is, everything she will be — just so she can escape the monster. She could become a shadow, a relic, and have no identity unless she wants to be found. 

So. Yes. Loba could just run.

She is choosing not to.

Loba stands with her hands rested on the head of her cane and her shoulders back, spine bolt straight. She is inside an elevator. The walls are glass and there is a large H etched into the doors before her; Loba has been inside this elevator for so long she has lost track of how deep into the complex she is. The floors blur together, a jarring wash of red and white that makes her feel dizzy if she looks past the glass for too long. Loba closes her eyes and tries to center herself; she uses the low, monotonous hum from inside the cell as a distraction. It is less of a hum and more of a dry, buzzing sound. It gnaws its way inside her skull and Loba takes a deep breath, slipping her thumb to the inside of her wrist. She presses once. 

Her pulse is racing.

Mostly, Loba is frustrated with herself: she should not be nervous about this. She should not be nervous about _anything._ Loba has been within various Hammond facilities for most of her life. Either by invitation or by trespassing, she has been in an elevator like this countless times. So— this is not new. This holding facility is not new. It is a vault of Hammond’s finest treasures situated on Psamathe, and Loba has dreamt of discovering what was here since she was a little girl.  
  
(Ever since she first came here as a child, clutching her wolf-headed cane silent and shaking with her father’s blood smeared on her face, blood dried red-brown between her fingers, black under her nail beds.) 

She _should_ be ecstatic. Finally, her years of stealing for Hammond have borne fruit: her Penthouse in Olympus is being prepared. She has top level access, with Hammond’s deepest secrets hers to pick through. The Syndicate will protect her should any harm come her way. She has fame and glory and excess all with her appointment to the Apex Games; her friends are not the most polite, but that is a small price to pay for everything else.

(She has proven herself useful. There is no need to hide and steal anymore. 

Loba can show her face and Hammond will stare back and ask, _What do you need, Ms. Andrade?_ and Loba will take _everything_ she is owed.)

And — more than _anything_ — the artifact has been assembled. This alone should have giddy. Instead, her body thrums with an undercurrent of anxiety — trepidation, something approaching fear. The elevator begins to slow, and Loba repeats the words to herself. Her throat tightens, hands breaking into a clammy cold sweat.

_The artifact has been assembled._

_The artifact is here._

Her thinking catches when a tinny chime sounds from inside the elevator. Loba opens her eyes and the chamber comes to a steady stop; the wash of color begins to separate, blocks of color and shapes through the frosted glass. The doors slide open, and the sublevel is exactly what Loba expects. Strong white light, the distant sound of countless cells locking and unlocking and being transported through the facility; a sudden bone-deep groan of something old and mechanical that makes her joints ache. 

The air is warm. Too warm. No matter how well they cycle it through the vents, there’s still that same artificial, synthetic heat — the kind that’s supposed to make you forget you’re a hundred feet below ground, but it does anything but. 

Still, when Loba found herself here — in the belly of Hammond, after all this time — she didn’t expect it all to seem so _mundane._

The holding bay is otherwise pleasant, once she adjusts to the heat. An elaborate water feature stands in the foyer, high as the first five floors. A waterfall trickles slow, gentle, with a large cherry blossom blooming to the side. Glass-like streams of water curve the edges of the soil and worm deeper into the sector, clear and crystalline. The air smells crisp and fresh, floral; the scent is synthetic, seeping from the air systems. 

And she doesn’t mind it.

The technicians are mild mannered, polite — and, if anything, _docile._ They are not what Loba imagines when she thinks of the scientists that created the beast that murdered her parents. They greet her with esteem and offer her water when she makes her presence known. Loba declines the water with a curt smile. 

A short, stocky man approaches her and takes her case in hand. He begins to lead her to the artifact’s cell; his questions are trivial and irritating on their approach, a tooth-rotting kind of sweet. 

“How are you feeling, Ms. Andrade?” He asks, all too civil. “How was your journey from Solace?” 

Loba follows him, her reply a terese “Fine,” and hopes that will close the conversation. It does. Small talk seems infantile, now. Not worth her time. Her energy. The technician bumbles ahead with her case and Loba keeps her eyes on it. Even now, after working with Hammond for so long — she can’t help but try to pick at his behavior. At the fact they allowed this meeting at all. 

At _everything_ about this place. How normal it feels.  
  
How little she resents it.

Maybe it is their attempts to target the source code that’s softened them. Maybe it’s their desire to reconnect with the Outlands through their sponsorship of the Apex Games; maybe they _are_ trying to clean up their image, trying to help those displaced by the war. 

Loba follows the technician. 

And then she sees him.

The monster. 

Revenant’s face flashes across a wall-high panel running the length of the corridor, his ghoulish metal face presented in grotesque detail. Her reaction is reflexive, even after all this time: a shiver runs the length of her spine and her chest tightens, a flash of anxiety beneath her skin. He is in the arena and has killed someone unimportant; he is crouched over them with his fingers like knives, sharp and buried into their chest. The familiar Outlands TV ticker runs underneath the image, and — of _course._ Anita: she is _complimenting_ him, the way she does, playing up for the pressers. _Helluva shot with the Peacekeeper,_ she’s quoted saying, _even if the bastard’s got a thing for puncture wounds._

His kill reel plays over. Over and over and _over._ Loba watches with quiet dismay. Bodies fall like broken toys, limbless and screaming, all to raucous applause. Revenant is still alive. He has killed and is _still_ killing; his brutality displayed for the masses and celebrated.

Loba’s fear turns to anger, to a fire bursting inside her chest. 

And _everything_ about Hammond, about the Apex Games and the Syndicate and the demonio come back into view. 

It is easy to be seduced by pleasantries such as this. Comfort. Lies. Cherry blossoms in bloom, the sight of little children running free and uncaring in Hammond propaganda reels, clothes muddy and picking flowers. A lie. A lie. 

_A lie._

Loba looks away. Her jaw tenses.

She could still run.

(Where would you go?)

Loba winds lower down the sector, and notes the gradual increase in bodies and movement as she progresses. Cells locking and unlocking with haste, the walls moving, shifting, never settled. One constant remains, though, amongst the ever changing cycle of moving parts.

Hammond technicians, Syndicate security. 

Hand in hand.

Their demeanor changes as Loba approaches the back cells. The techs are more weary eyed, tired looking; the Syndicate guards eye her with apprehension, watching as she moves. 

Perhaps it’s the cane, perhaps it’s the fact her presence in the Apex Games has brought her a whole new level of notoriety, much to the displeasure of the veteran mercs. 

(Or perhaps it’s thinking she could be gone of the demonio then and there, with a bullet clean between the eyes. A clean, poetic closure. A severe fault in her judgement, the kind that has her spoken unkindly of both in sleek Hammond boardrooms and dingy Solace bars. 

In hindsight, Loba knows trying to shoot his brain tissue was a mistake. 

The idea that something in her life could be simple — how _naive._ )

The technician stops. He moves her case to the crook of his arm and diverts his attention to the holo-terminal fixed on the wall. He prods and pokes at the datatable — locating the artifact’s cell, Loba presumes. She waits. Her sight flicks to the side and Loba catches a glimpse of herself in the glass; she looks herself up and down, pleased.

She has dressed well for this. Her attire is simple, nothing elaborate — a pale two piece suit with her jacket open and a silky blouse underneath; tailored cigarette pants that cinch at her waist, paired with kitten heels. Her nails are golden like the paint that lines her eyes, catching the light. Each piece is a measured, controlled expression of herself: even the gold toned cufflinks that line her wrists, the shape of wolf heads. Loba touches them, her fingertip bumping against a snout, along the hard edge of an ear.

Loba gazes at her reflection again. She is still satisfied. 

(She still has some last semblance of autonomy, identity, in a world that ripped everything else away.) 

Lovely. 

Loba scans at the stationary cells and tries to peer inside, habitual. Some are small, barely large enough to hold a gun. Some are larger. Loba thinks of the treasures they hold — she thinks of jewels and diamonds, an extensive covert armory, perhaps something as grandiose as a _Titan_ — not that she’s ever seen one in person, before. The war is long done. 

All that remains are relics, ghosts from the past.

A familiar affirmatory _beep_ sounds three cells down. Holding Chamber _#102_ lights up with a soft white glow, flanked by an enhanced Syndicate security detail. The technician beckons her, and Loba follows. A pair stand outside the cell, armed and stone-faced. Loba smiles with a saccharine-sweet politeness; the mercenaries do not respond. This is not the first time Loba has been outside of #102. The chamber walls turn translucent often, because the artifact has required near constant observation and repair since it first arrived.

Since — _she_ first arrived.

Ash. 

Loba reminds herself: the artifact has a name. It has a face. It has its legs missing and a broken hand. 

Her thinking falters when she reminds herself of this, because for so long Loba has only seen the artifact in pieces: lifeless hunks of metal scattered across Kings Canyon, buried underground. Even now — after _weeks_ of watching Hammond repair her, toiling mercilessly on her body — Loba has to _remind_ herself. 

The artifact has a name.

A name that floats down the hall with the hum of chatter, the sound like whispers, a hushed choir. Everyone is talking about her, and everyone is here; there are more bodies here than anywhere else in the facility. There is a whole lab dedicated to her recovery, it seems — a consolidation of resources and the best scientific minds Hammond has to offer, all working to make her functional. 

Loba observes, curious, at the lengths Hammond has undertaken to repair and contain her. They restore _Ash_ like an old fine painting: they have forged her new legs, fixed her hand. Any superficial damage to her chassis has been soldered smooth; the moss and flowerbeds grown into her metal insides have been stripped out. Her body has been repainted. The rusted bumbling wreck they extracted from the bunker is now a museum quality piece, with no expense spared. 

So much _effort_ for what is little more than a key. A key to a lock. 

That’s all she thought the artifact would be. 

Sometimes Loba arrives at the observation bay with flowers, sometimes with a gun. Loba is unsure of how to proceed with the information that the artifact is not an object but a _person._ It was a person. Now it — _she_ — is a simulacrum, a copy, an echo of a person; grafted with brain tissue inside her titanium skull. Loba toys with her cufflinks as she waits, and tries to wrangle the concept into something she can understand, something she can sympathise with. 

But she can’t. 

She has thought of this meeting for weeks. Now is _not_ the time to fold. Loba understands the importance of a strong first impression. Civility. Opening a dialogue. Her strongest attributes — a rarity amongst her newfound friends; a long lost art in the untamed Outlands. Loba knows she will have to work with this thing to find the location of the source code. She will need Ash to crack it. She will need her to be co-operative. Receptive.

So, this time, Loba brings a gift. 

(With her disdain pushed down, down, _down._ As deep as it will go.) 

Loba comes to the door, straightens her posture and eyes the Syndicate mercs on guard, expectant. Her liaison returns her case, she brings him in close and squeezes his shoulder, taking her case with a quiet “Thank you,” and waits at the threshold. The walls are opaque today, a black-blue obsidian. Observation is offline. Good.

The technician waits at the locking terminal. 

Loba stands, hands rested on the head of her cane. 

“Open it,” she orders. 

He complies.

The chamber unlocks with a sharp hiss of hydraulics, the sound harsh and unpleasant. Vapor escapes from the familiar _H_ embossed on the door, and it pulls apart with a steady _click,_ the movement so slow and sluggish it appears almost reluctant to open. The vapor fades, and the belly of Hammond Robotics exposes itself to her, walls white and porcelain and pristine. An icy chill crawls from inside. The air catches Loba’s spine and her shoulders stiffen. 

She steps forward, crossing the threshold. The artifact sits in the centre of the cell, a perfect prisoner: you do not need to worry about keeping simulacra alive the way you would with a human. You do not have to worry about keeping them fed, clothed, warm. 

Loba watches, wordless. The artifact remains silent. 

It’s — _different,_ seeing her like this. Without barriers, that distinct layer of separation — there is nothing between them, nothing to conceal her. 

The sight of Ash is nauseating. 

She strikes somewhere between human and inhuman, a constant metronome of uncanniness, her appearance unsettling. She sits cross legged, the tips of her deer-legged prosthetics showing from under her knee joints. Her body is thin and wiry looking, with her boxy metal hands folded in her lap. Her head is bowed, slightly, metal skull exposed to the light. Her hood is missing.

But the face is the worst part. 

Because it isn’t a face at all. Not with flesh and bone. 

Her face is a mask, frozen and unmoving. 

Synthetic like the rest of her. 

The faceplate is distinct from anything else Loba has seen on one of these things before. It takes the appearance of a washed white ceramic — fragile and delicate looking, compared to the hard metal employed by the rest of her frame. It is both horrifying and exquisite because it looks _so_ close to a human face; a _distinct_ face. 

Her face. Whoever Ash is — or _was_ — before she was turned into _this._

Loba twists her head, a short reprieve from the sight. Another technician stands at the door, staring at her. He is holding some kind of a tool — a baton, a cattle prod. It does not look friendly, whatever it is.

And it won’t be necessary.

“May we have some privacy,” Loba spits at the technician. “ _Please._ ”

The man stares at her with bewilderment. He looks to security, and they share a few short words. Loba returns her sight to the artifact and silence falls in the chamber. It holds for one, two — until a shuffle of footsteps sound from behind. The technician leaves. 

The door closes behind her, sealing shut. 

A cold, thin mist seeps from the vents. It hangs in the space between them.

“I thought a meeting between us was long overdue,” Loba begins, voice light. “Both our schedules have been rather busy. Thank you for making time for me.” 

No response.

“I assume you have your faculties,” Loba tries, polite. “That is what they’ve been working on correcting for all this time, isn’t it?” 

Nothing.

Loba watches, calm. She tilts her head and the corner of her mouth twitches; she is not afraid of being locked in a room with Ash. There is no need to worry. Ash is secured in place with no means of resisting. Hammond were smart when they brought her in. They left no opportunity for Ash to escape, to put up any kind of fight during the transfer. 

And now she is trapped here, fixed in place. 

Right where Loba can see her. 

Where she _belongs._ _  
_  
A large perspex table stands to Loba’s side, a few steps away. It is laden with tools similar to the cattle prod she saw earlier: pliers, wire cutters, countless sets of screws and finer implements, kept neat. All to do with maintenance — _integrity checks_ is what the staff call them, set on a rotation. They approach her with tools sharp and piercing, other blunt, sparking with electricity. _Integrity check_ means prying inside, ensuring all of Ash’s pieces remained fused, functional. It seems to be a rather callous procedure. Loba heard something close to a gasp of pain from her, once — which is odd, considering these things can’t really _feel_ anything. 

Loba reminds herself: Ash is made of wire. Metal. Plastic and crystal. Her personality, her being, _everything_ is simulated. Artificial. 

She is as real as looking at your reflection. 

It will be a good starting point for this, however. It is something Loba can use to her advantage.

“Have you seen the city?” Loba asks, making herself comfortable. Her cane lies at the mouth of the cell, her case placed to her side. “Perhaps I could give you a fly about, soon. I know a few places.”

And again: silence.

Loba clenches her jaw.

“How are you feeling, tonight,” she tries, creasing her brow in false interest; her voice is polite and well mannered, even as she bites back her frustration. Loba stands, waiting, and hopes this makes it clear to the artifact that she is not leaving anytime soon. “I know you must be bored in here. Entertain me, won’t you?” 

A long moment passes. 

“I feel _fine,_ ” the mask says at last, and the voice she emits makes Loba recoil. Her voice is low, gravely; underpinned by a dry, scratchy hiss of white noise coming from her voice synthesizer. 

“You will have to excuse my voice,” it continues, strained. “My vocal array has been in a prolonged state of disuse.” 

“It appears rather defective, yes,” Loba says, her sight drifting not-so-subtly to the integrity bench. “Like everything else. You were in _such_ a bad way when we found you. I must commend Hammond’s dedication to your recovery.” 

Loba approaches the table, curious. She observes Ash as she walks, half expecting her to move. Instead, Ash sits with an unnerving stillness, her head bowed, the sterile cell lights striking against her profile. Loba holds her gaze for a fraction of too long before looking back to the table. She grazes her nails against the bench, tracing the blades of the tools, the divots in the metal.

(Her nails are shorter than when she first joined the Apex Games. They are still elaborate and sharp and beautiful, but shorter. They do not break as easily. It’s easier to tug the pin on a grenade this way — easier to fire a gun.)

Loba picks up a holopad, hand curling around the frame. She scrolls past everything unimportant, catching snippets of the artifact’s threadbare personnel file. The mask has a _name,_ yes — a human sounding one. Her chassis is a custom modification of a standard issue simulacrum frame. She is old, but not as old as the demonio _._ She has been in the hands of both Hammond and Vinson dynamics, but there is nothing on file before Hammond.

Ugh. Useless. _Useless._

Loba reaches the repair rota. Finally, something useful. 

“You had an integrity check,” Loba says, reading the data table, “An hour ago.” 

“Yes,” Ash responds, an edge of frustration to her voice. “I cannot move.” 

There. Something she can use. 

Anger.

Loba looks up from the holopad, voice airy. “Good. I’m sure it was decided in your best interest,” she says, words oh-so-polite, pushing on the point. “We can’t have you hurting yourself again, now. Can we?” 

“I do not see the purpose in giving me new legs,” Ash says, firm, “When I am not permitted to walk.”

 _They are figuring out how to control you,_ Loba could say, _Without breaking you into tiny pieces. Again._

But Loba doesn’t _owe_ Ash anything, so she quirks a brow, feigning ignorance. 

Loba sets the pad down, parts her lips to speak but Ash’s body sparks with a flicker of light, spluttering electricity. The light catches behind her eyes, a stark golden pulse, flickering behind the metal grates in the mid-section of her chassis. 

Loba stills.

“My n-name is Ash,” the mask says, distant. Her voice cracks with an unpleasant scratch of static, the yellow-white light holding a steady glow inside her neck — at the integrity check port at the base of her throat.

“Ash,” the mask says again. Her voice catches, stuttering. “My name is — Ash.” 

She sounds distant, absent. Like she’s barely here.

“Loba Andrade,” Loba replies, sharing no such uncertainty. Loba smiles and her words are a taunt, goading her. In a place like this — where identity is luxury, when you are little more than a set of numbers etched onto skin in a sea of faceless copies — Loba can enjoy this small moment of superiority. 

“The pleasure is mine.” Loba continues. “I do hope you are comfortable.” 

“I have not moved since I arrived,” Ash says. “I wish to stand, at least. It is not pleasant.”

Loba looks at her, face unchanging. 

“Pity.” 

There’s a silence. It is large and severe and uncomfortable, and anxiety flares under Loba’s skin. Loba steps from the bench and paces the length of the cell, slow. A soft click from her boots sounds underfoot. She paces half to temper her anxiety; half as a taunt to Ash. 

_Look at what I can do,_ is what Loba says wordlessly with her steps, _Look at what they trust me with._

“I have watched your performance,” Ash says, and Loba’s eyes flicker, a hint of curiosity. Her tone is pleasant. “You fight admirably.” 

Loba takes a second to pick at Ash’s words, for some double meaning, for _something_ to tell her it is not Ash is not as sincere as she sounds. There is no reason for Ash to be sincere. Ash is trapped in a cell and Loba is pacing around her. 

There is no reason for Ash to be _nice._

“Such high praise,” Loba replies, facing her. “From an experienced Commander, no less. I’m flattered.” 

“You keep pace,” Ash says, “With the others.”

Loba stills and folds her hands, toying with her bracelet.

“I learn quickly.” 

“Am I allowed to know why you’re here?” Ash asks, an edge to her voice. “Or is this _also_ being withheld from me.”

“I cannot tell you why _they_ have you here,” Loba says, relaxing her hands. “But — me? I have something for you. A gift.” 

Loba moves, striding to her case, aloof and confident and _winning,_ everything in its place. Ash is experienced. She is a relic older than Loba knows, than anyone knows. She is an enigma, an unknown entity and _Ash_ is at Loba’s heel, hanging on her every word. 

And Ash doesn’t know a thing about her at all. 

Until her body twists, turning just slightly wrong — and Loba exposes exactly what she doesn’t want Ash to see. What she doesn’t want anyone to see. A fracture in the mask. One that splinters, shatters into pieces. A shock of pain rips through her spine, sudden and severe and excruciating, because the loss of her parents alone was not enough. 

No, she must sustain _this:_ the result of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. An orphaned child stumbling in the dark, terrified and afraid; through carnage and fire and smoke, broken glass and gunfire. Not too different from the Apex Games, she thinks in some twisted way. All the way down to him. The monster. The same unending _pop-pop-pop_ as black-cotton mercenaries try to contain him as Revenant rips through body after body, floor after floor. And Loba is an afterthought, forgotten in the sightlines.

The perfect collateral.

And there’s nothing that stops him. There’s nothing that stops _this_ — this pain — not right now, not in this moment. 

Her breath catches and Loba kneels, half-curled in on herself; she sucks a breath sharp through her teeth, bracing against the pain. The memory, the pain, both are overwhelming: the smell of burnt steak and iron and gunpowder. Walls slashed with blood; glass scattered across the marble floors, rough under her tiny fingertips. And the cries. The sound of people wailing, screaming and Revenant is _laughing,_ showing no remorse. It all bleeds together, the blood and the pain and the anger, hot under her skin. His laugh rattles in her skull and Loba remains locked in place, the consequences of Hammond’s actions felt in every aspect; gnawed nerve and chipped bone running through her, shrapnel in her flesh. 

All remedied with surgery and time, her handlers would be quick to say — and they would be right, for the most part. A patchwork of procedures undertaken over the twenty-something since it happened. Some surgeries through Hammond, some through Hammond-but-not-Hammond, subsidiaries under a different name, all tracing back to them. Loba is healed enough she can bound around like a newborn lamb; she can enjoy capoeira again and use her cane as a spear, a vaulting pole, a black-market — _countless_ possibilities alongside its initial use as a mobility aid. 

But sometimes — _sometimes,_ despite her best efforts, her years of discipline and diligence — the pain still comes back. Flaring for a second, a fraction of a moment, but severe — like a shot in the back. 

It’s enough to stall her, the way it feels like fire through her bones, a sick-warm heat. Enough that Loba’s eyes close; she presses her palm against the ice-cold floor and spreads her fingers, pushing against the metal. Loba bows her head and juts her jaw, taking a shaky breath. 

She breathes. Long. Slow.

Loba feels Ash’s cold metal gaze on her. 

“Ah,” Ash says after a pause, thoughtful. “There was talk of Hammond testing regenerative surgery on a child. Years ago. Rumors, but — I am surprised it came to fruition.”

Loba stills. Her stomach drops. Of course. 

Of _course._

Of course the surgery they offered was a test. Everything Hammond does — and will do — will always be a test. For war. For _science._ For whatever they want it to be, when they have no one else to answer to. What she saw as an olive branch, hell — what she believed was the start of Hammond repaying their debt to her, after taking everything away — 

— it was just a _test._

Nothing is freely given. Nothing is simple. How naïve you are, Loba, for thinking _any_ different. Loba balls her hand into a fist and leans against the tile, pushing her weight into her hand. Her knuckles ache. The sensation is dull. Blunted. 

“There was interest in a wider application of medical advancements discovered during wartime,” Ash explains, “And a great need for it in the colonies, as you would expect. I imagine Hammond were quite active in that regard.” 

Loba clenches her jaw. The last thing she cares about are the _colonies_ — especially now. She tries to center herself, focus on working through the pain, when Ash speaks again.  
  
“There were many children, like you,” Ash says. “After the war.”

“You — do not know _anything_ about me,” Loba says, strained.   
  
There’s a pause. Then:  
  
“Your posture is stiff,” Ash says, sombre. “You are used to holding yourself in such a way as not to trigger pain. You fall back into it out of habit. I suspected it as soon as you walked through here.” 

Loba remains silent. 

“I suspect you had issues with your spine,” Ash continues, clinical. “Shrapnel refusing to settle. Damage to your spinal cord and vertebrae. Residual pain and numbness in your extremities. Less often now, I would hope.” 

Loba looks over her shoulder, stiff. She scoffs. “Reading my personnel file is _not_ impressive.” 

Ash maintains her poise. 

“I haven’t read it.” 

“ _Haven’t_ you,” Loba says, harsh. 

“I have trained enough pilots to know when one carries old wounds, Ms. Andrade,” Ash says, and Loba can hear the small smile in her voice. “It is a strength of mine.” 

Loba swallows, releasing a shaky breath. For the first time — in a long, _long_ time — she feels vulnerable. It is a strange and unwelcome feeling; a coldness across her chest. 

And even so — she can’t help but respect Ash’s astute deduction, despite herself. It is another reminder of Ash’s experience, her time on the field, her expertise in her craft. But being made to feel vulnerable is not something Loba takes kindly to. Not in the slightest.  
  
She is not here for pity, to be picked apart. 

Loba stands, slow, assured. She presents her claws.

“And your pilots,” Loba echoes, voice light and sickly sweet, “I’m sure they appreciate the care you take with them. The few that are left alive, anyway. I must admit — I haven’t heard much from Vinson Dynamics since the war. I can’t imagine the body count.” 

Another silence. Her spine aches.

Loba wishes she could see some kind of response in Ash’s face, her body, something — some indication that Loba is managing to crack her too-composed veneer. Something that tells her she could break it into tiny pieces, if she wanted. If she tried hard enough.

But all Loba sees is a mask, frozen and porcelain and perfect. Until: 

“Hammond is trying to fix their mistakes, aiding in your recovery,” Ash muses, dry. “How strange. I never thought they would concern themselves with charity.” 

Charity. 

_Charity._

Loba stares in silent anger, trying so hard to keep it down, buried. Pleasant. 

And she can’t. She can’t.

She can’t and her anger spills out, furious.

Loba has tried. Loba has given and given and given everything and Hammond still wants more. It wants another simulacrum. Another monster. Hammond wants her to assemble the artifact and to tolerate the others, even when they berate and belittle her, when Nox slams her against a wall with a hand squeezing her neck. Hammond wants her to cover the bruises and speak to them and _smile,_ smile with her teeth and say _thank you, Alexander. Thank you for your expertise._

(When all Loba _wants_ to do is slice his neck with the tip of her cane and watch the blood spill from his neck like a sheet, silky and crimson. She wants to watch him drop to one knee clutching his throat, gasping and spluttering, reaching for her. Loba wants to stand over Nox with teeth bared and gleaming and say _I am sure you will make a full recovery, Alexander,_ and _smile._ ) 

She knows, now, that words alone will not work for Ash.  
  
(They will not work for anyone.) 

Loba faces the door. 

She could still leave. Run. Give up.

She could. 

She doesn’t.

Loba closes the space between them and grabs Ash’s face with one hand, twisting it to one side with a sharp hiss of wires and metal rope. Ash’s neck sparks at the movement, her metal face warm beneath Loba’s hand. Loba holds her, curious, tilted under the light. Hm. This one feels so much more rigid than the demonio. Ash is more sturdy and robust; handcrafted, bespoke.

Ash is a shell that can’t be created over and over in perpetuity, not like Revenant can. She is almost human, in that sense. She is finite. 

Ash is almost human.

But not quite. 

Loba pushes her head more, further, beyond a normal human range of movement and hears a resistant sounding _click-click-click,_ the sound like joints popping. Ash makes a thin strained sound. Loba wonders if she pushed hard enough she could snap her neck. She wonders if this hurts. 

She doesn’t care.

“Charity,” Loba spits, “Is the last thing I need. _You,_ however —” she pauses, lowering her voice, “You should take all the help you can _get._ ”

Loba swallows, thick, and her pulse hammers against her skull. A small jagged breath catches in the back of her throat and her mouth twitches in a smile, so small and quick you could miss it.

“Look at you,” Loba coos, cutting. “Stuck here. Alone. Nowhere to go. No one left alive to even ask about you. No one that cares.” 

“There is _nothing_ — that I want to see here,” Ash musters, her voice cracking.

“Olympus is a beautiful city,” Loba tuts. “You should give her a chance.”

Loba keeps hold of Ash’s face. She could hold on and on and never let go, and there is nothing inside this cell to stop her. It is a small exercise of power. 

It will be enough, for now. It will satisfy her. 

Loba smiles again, wider, and looks to Ash with renewed interest. She’s already had one bloodthirsty simulacrum kneel for her — why not another? Why not drag this out a little longer? She has _earned_ this. She tolerated the others and their pathetic melodrama as they recovered Ash; Loba has endured Revenant’s presence too many times to count.  
  
She’s had to sit, listen, and — _entertain_ the idea that Revenant wants to die and that Loba should be the one to kill him; some twisted mercy killing, an ironic twist of fate. He shrieks and whines and begs for death, for deliverance, something larger — and Loba watches, unchanged. It does nothing to convince her. 

But _this_ simulacrum — _Ash_ — she is reduced to nothing but wires and pieces, locked in place and still unrelenting in her assertions of autonomy and her right to persist, despite everything. Just a ghost inside a chassis, a voice inside metal, and she sounds so smooth and calm, compared to him. 

Oh: to hear this voice say _Please, Loba,_ weak and wounded. To hear Ash say _Please_ and mean it. 

Now — _that_ is a far more captivating proposition. That is something Loba is interested in. 

“Perhaps, if you ask politely,” Loba starts, her words dripping with faux sympathy, “I can convince them to release you. Allow you to walk again.” 

But this simulacrum is not like the others. 

Not at all.

“I will not beg,” the mask — _Ash_ — says, mouth unmoving. “Not like _he_ did.” 

Hammond’s faulty plaything — Revenant, what a stupid name — hangs over them both, name left unsaid. The thing that brought her and Ash together. The thing that requires them to continue to work in unison, for this to be _civil._ Loba curls her lip, takes a sharp breath and relents, even as every inch of her wants to stay. Stay like this — in control, at her apex, even if it is a small illusion of power. She is here for something larger and tangible; something she can take within her hands, something she can touch.

Loba makes a frustrated sound in the back of her throat and shoves Ash away, huffing a dry laugh. Ash simply rocks in place, returning to her locked position. 

Ash goes quiet. Again.

Loba steps back. She turns. Her eyes close and her hand jumps to her mouth; her breathing is ragged, sharp, and her heart hammers in her chest. She is still angry. Revenant is still alive and her parents are still bodies in the ground. She still has shrapnel in her soft tissue, pieces so small and miniscule and so deep it is impossible to remove them. It is impossible. All of it. Finding the source code. Working with this thing — Ash. Killing Revenant. Killing Revenant and feeling satisfied, because even then — he _still_ wins.   
  
(Seeing her Father smile again. Touching her Mother’s hair. 

Impossible.)

But finding Ash was possible. Piecing her back together was possible. Getting as far as to be in a room with Ash and have her receptive and talking — perhaps that is possible, too. It is possible to survive this and not turn into something as sadistic and bestial as the monster. Loba does not have to lose herself to kill him. 

Another breath. Deep. Long. Slow through her lungs. 

“Ah, yes,” Loba mumbles, finding her composure. She sees her case on the ground. “Yes. Your — _gift._ ” 

Loba bends down — slower this time, mindful of her spine — and takes a box from inside her bag. The outer casing is expensive, a supple, soft leather; tied neat with golden ribbon. Golden like the scratched decals on Ash’s chassis, golden like the rings on Loba’s thumb and forefinger. Golden like the banners that hang over the Apex Games; golden like pyrite. Fool’s gold. A forgery.

A lie. 

“This is for you,” Loba begins, setting the box on the perspex table between them both. Her voice is dry. “Hm. I guess I’ll open it.” 

Loba pulls the ribbon and sets it aside, lifting the lid. Her gift lies on a bed of red satin, perfect and spotless and immaculate, no expense spared. 

“My hood,” Ash says, surprised. 

“I thought you would appreciate it,” Loba says, trying to settle her voice back into something acceptable, a slight tremble to her words — from anger, not fear. She lifts the hood from the box and slips one hand inside, presenting it to Ash.

“Is it the same,” Ash asks, “From the bunker.” 

“Yes,” Loba says, striding back to Ash, her attention drawn to smoothing the creases in the hood. The fabric is robust, threaded with ballistic fiber, heavy feeling in her hand; something that could easily withstand battle. “It looked a little chewed up when they brought you in,” Loba continues, looking up. “So, I had it — restored. Like the rest of you.” 

“I would like to wear it,” Ash says after a pause, as Loba expects. Simulacra gave a thing for trinkets, for markings that distinguish their metal shells. For Ash — her chestplate, the decals on her shoulder and marked on her thighs, ammo belts and weapon holsters strapped to chassis. And yes, of course, her hood. A replica will not suffice. 

It is strange to imagine Ash as sentimental. But she was human, once.

Once.

“I can put it on for you,” Loba starts, approaching her. 

“—Only if you do _not_ twist my head again,” Ash interjects, firm.

Loba stops. Her shoulders slacken. She sighs, displeased with herself. 

“I won’t,” Loba says, sincere. 

And she doesn’t. 

This time, Loba is softer. She slips the hood over Ash’s head and draws the scarf around her neck, sweeping it back over her shoulder. She fastens the hood to Ash’s skull, one notch at a time. Loba smooths the creases in the fabric and adjusts her scarf, taking care in fixing her hood until it drapes _just_ right — and there.

There she is.

Ash. 

Her metal face framed by the fabric, the harshness of her softened. 

“Ah,” Loba says, “Now. How lovely.” 

Loba moves her hands, palms resting on the flat of Ash’s chest, cushioned by her cowl. There’s a gentle whirr from her chassis, a subtle swell of heat. It almost, _almost_ feels like a beating heart, if Loba closed her eyes and imagined it for long enough. 

Ash doesn’t say anything. Ash doesn’t move. Because she can’t. Loba has given her gift and nothing changes. Nothing changes in this cell, in this room — in a complex that moves and shifts like the shrapnel in her soft tissue, nothing changes. Everything is kept where it belongs.

Everything in its place. 

Loba’s hands drift from Ash’s cowl and touch her faceplate, again. There’s an allure to it. Its uniqueness, the time taken to craft it, the purpose it holds. Ash would be dead — no, dormant — without it. The faceplate is what activates the rest of her. What makes all her pieces work in tandem, come alive.

And it is _full_ of secrets — encryption keys — fused on the inside; the keys are, as Loba understands, integral to the rest of her frame. What allows her to be part Hammond, part Vinson, jury rigged and rebuilt, over and over. Like patchwork. 

All in that beautiful face.

Keys to a lock. Locks to a key. Loba wonders what other locks Ash could break; Loba wonders if Ash would allow herself to break them. Perhaps Ash would allow Loba to help her — Loba knows how wonderful it feels to release from what is expected, regime; to lie and cheat and steal because she can, because this is what she wants, this is all that’s left.  
  
Loba observes the delicate looking fracture lines sprawling over Ash’s faceplate, and watches the countless lines of encryption keys move; a faint golden blow crawling beneath the cracks. She wonders of the tale behind each fracture — which are from surviving Typhon, which are from Prowler teeth sinking into her frame and ripping her to pieces; which are from age, time. She grazes a nail across one of the lines, feeling the rough change in texture, following it with her fingertip. 

Loba follows the fracture to the curve of Ash’s brow, the indent of her temple; all the way to where Ash’s faceplate meets with the rest of her metal skull. 

Loba’s hand settles at the edge of the faceplate. She wonders if she could pry it off. If she could steal it — if she could take Ash home to her penthouse, display the mask on her mantel with the rest of her collection. Perhaps she could rest Ash on her vanity — Loba could take the mask and paint golden spirals on her face; Loba could shape Ash into something she understands, something even more beautiful. 

Loba touches Ash’s chin and tilts her face upward; the movement is gentle, careful. Ash looks back, eyes black and void and empty — and somehow, it feels like Ash is looking right through her.

And nothing changes. 

Her anger stirs, despite her attempts to keep it at bay.

Loba is still angry — at Revenant, at Hammond, at the others.  
  
(At herself, for thinking she could ever be free.) 

She knows too much to be free of Hammond ever again. They are both prisoners. 

So: why not rattle the bars. Why not break them, or try to; why not rile your cellmate just to feel you have some small scrap of power left. 

Loba sees the smudge of lipstick on the pad of her thumb and rubs it over Ash’s mouth, against the cold metal impression of her lip.

“So _pretty,_ ” Loba says, all teeth. “Aren’t you?” 

There’s a pause. Then: 

“Anger is a useful tool,” Ash says, “When utilized correctly.”  
  
Her tone is even, assured — and Loba laughs, once.

“Patience, however,” Ash continues, “is _invaluable._ ” 

_I have been patient for long enough,_ Loba wants to say, _I have waited for so long that everything else is gone._

“You will have your time with him,” Ash says, calm. “You have my word. I owe you a great debt for piecing me back together.”  
  
Loba shakes her head and huffs a breath, rolling her eyes. 

“I want more than his _time,_ ” Loba says, unable to conceal her contempt. “I would not have gone to all the effort of piecing you back together for something so worthless.” 

“So tell me,” Ash says, “What you want. And I will see it done.” 

Loba’s jaw tightens. 

_I want to gouge out the eyes he doesn’t have. I want to feel his bones break from under me. I want to kill him. I already have. I have killed him over and over and over and it still isn’t enough._

“I want,” Loba says, voice low and sharp and deliberate, “Everything _else._ ” 

She looks Ash up and down. Drinks her in. Curls her lip and bares her teeth, slightly. And Loba moves one last, final time, and stands as close to Ash as their bodies allow. Ash is close — too close — and Loba stands, assured, looming over her. Loba rests her hands on the sides of Ash’s face, hands slipped beneath the fabric of her hood, hands splayed over the back of her head. Still, _still,_ Loba can’t help but be taken by her — by the faceplate, that is. The craftsmanship, the time taken to preserve and immortalize what she assumes to be Ash’s features, cast with loving detail. Loba’s hands roam, again; her fingers run along the swell of her sunken cheekbones, palms rested against the hollow gaunt of her cheeks. 

And Loba stays. She stays and Ash cannot move.

The implication, she hopes, is clear: there is more to this than Revenant. More than his source code. There is — everything Hammond has, everything it is, everything it will be. The demonio is just one small, insignificant piece of that ever moving, sprawling web of treasures. 

And Ash — her head, her memories — is how Loba gets them. 

“You are full of secrets,” Loba says, “And I want to know each and every one of them. That is what I want. That is what I am owed.” 

Loba stays. For moments, seconds, longer. Until Ash speaks again: 

“You are unimportant,” Ash says, voice soft and crushing. “Your contributions here have served as little more than a convenience to your handlers. You have no stake here. No recourse.” She pauses, taking a harsher edge to her tone. 

“The sooner you understand that,” Ash continues, “The better.” 

Loba scoffs and pulls her body away barely an inch, hands still held on Ash’s head. She cannot hide the pain she feels, how Ash’s words come like a deathblow, deep and punishing. 

“And _you,_ ” Loba murmurs, “Are just a tool. That is why you are stuck here. And why no one cares. Why they threw you _out_ the first time.” 

“If they placed _any_ value in you, Ms. Andrade,” Ash says, “They would not have left you in a cell, alone, with _me._ ” 

“You don’t scare me,” Loba says with a coarse, condescending laugh. “You are harmless to me, darling — and far too polite.” 

“You do not think they check me every hour because I am _polite,_ do you?” Ash asks, mocking. Her tone changes, and it sounds like she’s smiling — even though her red-white mouth stays frozen. “I assume you are familiar with my combat record. Vinson Dynamics. The IMC. Typhon. Blisk.” 

Loba listens, betraying nothing in her features; she is familiar with Ash’s record, whispers of her time during the war — data lifted from the underbelly of the Outlands, the same that allowed her to find Revenant, Hammond. But it never quite clicked — that it was _her.  
  
_And it seems — finally — Ash remembers her past, too. Or some of it.

“I lead _armies._ I played with the most elite of soldiers for my own amusement,” Ash says, cutting. “I became the best at what I chose to be. A Pilot. A Commander. I lived up to my title as an Apex Predator. I _superseded_ it.” 

Loba thinks of the war — too young to remember it, buried too deep inside Psamathe’s gilded foster system to experience the aftershocks after its end. But Loba knows enough: enough to imagine Ash outside of this room, to picture her on the field. She thinks of Ash with her Titan — her Ronin — and the destruction she leaves in her wake; her power unmatched by anything else Loba’s ever seen.  
  
Yes — even Revenant. Even him.

Loba understands, now, that Revenant is little more than a faulty toy. The power Ash commands and controls within herself — it makes Revenant’s killing seem like child’s play. Ash could rip through this complex with her Titan and leave no survivors, perhaps she could rip through this complex without it. She would take Revenant and crush him underfoot; she would take her Ronin’s sword and slice him in two. Ash could tear out his source code and kill him with her hands; Loba could watch Ash kill him over and over and over, without lifting a finger. 

And yet, for all her battles — Loba has played with Ash like a broken doll since she walked through here. Posing her, dressing her, putting color on her mouth. All without considering who she is, who she was; unthinking of the consequence. Loba swallows. She thinks about removing her hands.

But she doesn’t.

“And I am _patient,_ ” Ash murmurs with a phantom smile, her voice low. “Which is something both you and other simulacrum seem to lack, Loba.” 

Loba stills, betraying a small smile. 

“You were _patient,_ ” Loba says, “Until you blew up an entire complex for one _untrained_ pilot. Yes. I know. More than you think.”

“And _you_ levelled half of the arena because you could not restrain yourself,” Ash retorts, stern. “So now you must rely on me. Hammond. Your _friends._ To fix your mistakes.”

Loba scoffs. “Hm. Perhaps we aren’t so different.”   
  
“Do not place your trust in Hammond,” Ash says, softer. “That was my mistake.”

Loba pauses and narrows her eyes, brow furrowed. 

“I — I don’t _trust_ them,” she says, and the words sound as unconvincing as they feel. 

Because she does. Loba does trust them. She trusts Hammond.

Her penthouse is not in her name. It belongs to Hammond. Her body is keyed to the Syndicate’s respawn chamber systems for the Apex Games; Hammond must have access, at the very least — or they helped craft them, which is much more likely. Loba did not go through the proper selection process to compete. Her appointment to the Apex Games relies on a promise, a favor; something far too flimsy and weak to hold to any kind of esteem. As much as Loba has clawed her way for what she wants — Hammond could still take it back just as easily, without consequence. 

They could leave her to the wolves if they wanted. 

Loba looks to Ash, thinks of Revenant and the Games and the green-yellow marks on her neck, and realizes — 

They already have. The wolves are already here. 

Ash remains quiet, a silent watcher to Loba’s fractured confidence. Loba feels Ash’s stare and knows Ash would smile, if she could. She is self righteous and enjoying this; Ash is doing exactly what Loba would do. Enjoying small luxuries, tests of faith. 

Loba holds her eyes, taking a sharp breath.

And God, she could kill her. Loba could pick a tool from the table and drive it into Ash’s faulty metal eye and ruin _everything_ Hammond has worked so hard for. It would bring her quick relief, the kind a child gets after smashing her toys and thinking it will get her what she wants; it would make her feel better.

But her doll would still be broken, with no means to repairing it again.

And Loba can do more than breaking. Breaking is what a monster does. A monster breaks through a restaurant window and smashes a guard against the glass wall panels; a monster breaks and breaks and breaks until nothing is left, and they are never satisfied. 

Loba is _better.  
_

She is a thief. Best in the Outlands — perhaps the entire Frontier, if she was arrogant enough. Loba can slip in and out of any complex undetected, without tripping a single alarm, without leaving a trace. Loba can just twist a key. Release a lock.

And do something so much worse than breaking. 

She could set something free. 

Loba slips a scalpel from the underside of Ash’s hood, taking it in her fingers. It is one of Hammond’s tools for integrity checks. Loba has watched the technicians repair Ash enough times to know this tool is responsible for her locomotion array. It is a small and fragile looking thing, a green-toned silver, with a line of contact pins on each side. It is also very, _very_ important — and yet the door technician didn’t even notice it was gone when she brought them in close to receive her case and picked it from his pocket.

Loba takes the scalpel in her hand, and shows it to Ash in the short space between them. She laughs, low. She can almost _see_ Ash gawking at it, if her eyes could move; her silence speaks volumes. No one ever expects it — the way Loba can steal, lie, cheat her way to what she wants.

And Ash is smart. She asks no questions. She remains deathly quiet. 

“I think we could both stand to learn the importance of allies,” Loba says, calm. “We have both been so used to fending ourselves, for so long,” she continues with false sincerity, creasing her brow. An act for any onlookers. “Perhaps we can come to an arrangement that benefits us both. And Hammond, of course.

“Perhaps,” Ash replies, and Loba detects a hint of uncertainty to her tone. “I am willing. To listen.”

“Good,” Loba purrs. “Good. Now,” she continues, “Let me fix that scarf for you, darling.” 

“Yes,” Ash says. “I would like you to adjust it.” 

Loba slips a hand under Ash’s cowl and pulls it to one side, exposing her neck. The scalpel gleams under the artificial light, a subtle green-gray iridescence. 

Loba lowers her voice, maintaining her poise. “I hope you will accept my gift, Ash,” she says. 

There’s a pause. Loba searches Ash’s eyes for something — anything — and she doesn’t even know what she’s looking for when she knows Ash can’t _do_ anything, but she takes Ash’s silence as a good thing.

A leap of faith.  
  
Loba takes the key and pushes it into the base of Ash’s throat. She pushes past the grates and the wires, sinking into Ash’s steel insides. The scalpel warms between her fingers. That must mean it’s working. Loba holds a steady pressure, looking Ash in her empty black desperate eyes, leaning into the point. 

She holds it. For one, two, and something catches — Ash’s breath, a stutter of circuits, something — because Ash’s body tenses, then relaxes, just slightly, under Loba’s grip. 

Loba slips her hand away from Ash’s neck, pulling away. Ash remains still, holding an eerie, unsettling poise. 

Loba takes the key back in her hand. The metal is still warm and softened between her fingers, so she snaps it; she renders it useless, just because she can. A small pleasure. It’s not like Hammond will be needing it anymore. She slips the pieces into her suit pocket.

And now they are at even standing. Ash can move — Ash can do whatever she wants to whoever she wants — even as she chooses to remain still. They are both trapped inside this cage — this cell, Hammond, the Apex Games — but she can move, now. Which is something.  
  
Loba reaches and lightly takes Ash’s hand in her own; she runs her thumb over Ash’s boxy finger joints, squeezing once. She meets her eyes — and with the hood, the slightest blush of red on her lips, the cracked mask — Ash is very striking, in her own terrible way. Like art. The art you admire more because its age has added to its appeal; the decay, the texture, the intrigue of its history. 

And for Ash, Loba wonders of the power she could bring. 

“Hm. You _are_ rather beautiful,” Loba admits, observing her. “I see why they wanted to preserve it.” 

Ash squeezes back — the touch far softer than Loba expects — and Loba slips her hand away, satisfied that Ash is responsive. 

“Now, as much as I would enjoy nothing more than to stay and chat,” Loba says, checking her bracelet, “I have a dinner reservation. And my car is waiting for me. You understand.” 

“Where are you going,” Ash asks, calm. 

“Hm? Oh. Liberdade,” Loba says, looking up from her bracelet. “Upscale. Brazilian-Japanese fusion. It is a rodízio — fixed fee, eat what you like.” Loba pauses, and her body relaxes. “I love it there,” she says, lighter. “It is _so_ vibrant and colorful and full of life, and —” 

_It reminds me of home,_ she almost says, _it reminds me of my parents._

“It is quite unlike this place,” Loba says instead, looking round the cell. “There is a beautiful view, too. I can see my penthouse.” 

Loba thinks, wistfully, of what waits when she arrives. An ice-cold caipirinha, a basket of fresh golden pão de queijo to snack on while her meal sizzles on the open grill at the back; the taste so close to mama and papa’s own cooking, everything warm and cosy and alive. All the tastes of São Paulo dancing on her tongue, a relic from the core systems, from Earth — she is almost home, almost. 

“I hope you enjoy it,” Ash says, sincere. 

Loba wonders where home is for Ash. If there even is one. If she even remembers. If there’s anyone left for her, or if she has outlived them — just as Loba has outlived her parents, outlived everyone that mattered. 

Loba begins to collect her things. She takes her case, walks to the door and retracts her cane, taking it in hand.

Ash has still not moved.

Loba stands at the door and swipes her keycard over the control panel, requesting it to open. A moment passes and the doors retract. Somehow — surprisingly — Loba does not leave as quick as she expects she would. Instead, she waits at the mouth of the cell, looking outward to the lab, and hears a pair of technicians speaking ahead of her. They are already preparing Ash’s next integrity check. One has a cattle prod — the other a rack of scalpels similar to the one she used to unlock her; sharpening them one by one. 

Loba winces internally. She can’t help but imagine that the checks _do_ cause pain. They must do. That is why they lock her in place. Why they paralyze her. Ash was — _is_ — human and her body is irreplaceable; any procedure that cuts inside her is going to hurt, wire or flesh.  
  
But Ash won’t need to endure another one. That is one small mercy Loba can give. 

Loba looks over her shoulder, meeting eyes with the artifact one last time.  
  
“Have a pleasant evening,” Loba says, “Ash.”  
  
“You will have to show me Olympus,” Ash replies, “Next time.” 

“Of course,” Loba replies. 

Her bracelet buzzes, incessant. Loba swallows, composing herself. She exits the cell and the technicians are already striding toward her, tools in hand. Loba knows, however severe, that there will be consequences for this: it may take moments, hours. Maybe even days. But it is an act of defiance — a sign that she will not turn on her back and show her belly, she will not show submissiveness. Not for Hammond. Not for _anyone._

And perhaps gaining Ash’s trust — an alliance, something — perhaps that will offer her more than Hammond would ever care to give. 

The pair of technicians push past her, showing little regard for her space. It is unsurprising — they are monsters. Monsters do not care. One circles to Ash’s side, the other behind her — they have already pulled back her hood, shoved her head forward and stabbed a scalpel into the back of her neck. 

Ash submits, remaining still.  
  
Ash is not a monster. 

But Loba knows the technicians will not survive this. No one on this floor will survive this, if they try to stop her escape. And it is what they deserve.

Loba doesn’t need to watch them die. 

But she will imagine it. Fondly.

And enjoy the view.   
  


**Author's Note:**

> Annnnd there it is. I also tried to incorporate some of Loba's heritage into her character, but I am also White so I hope it was decent. 
> 
> Please leave a kudos and/or comment if you enjoyed! ty!!!!! uwu


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